


Orzammar Nights

by xJellyfishQueenx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cockblocking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Orzammar, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27501355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJellyfishQueenx/pseuds/xJellyfishQueenx
Summary: Find out what happens when Minerva Cousland and Zevran Arainai have a few moments alone in Orzammar.
Relationships: Cousland/Zevran, Zevran Arainai/Female Cousland
Kudos: 11





	Orzammar Nights

"You can't be serious? You want to support Bhelen?"  
Warden Cousland tipped back the rest of her ale listening to her companions argue. Orzammar was in political turmoil, its king dead, heir to the throne denounced by a family friend, and no end in sight.  
Zevran tossed some coin on the table to pay for their drinks. "Yes I do. Harrowmont is a coward who won't even fight in his own name. Why should anyone else risk their lives to name him king?"  
"He is a ruthless killer!" Alistair shot back. "He doesn't even deny it!"  
"In Antiva, assassination of the competition is perfectly normal. At least Bhelen will swing the sword himself.”  
Warden Cousland stretched in her chair, eyes falling half-lidded and tired. "In the morning we set out for the Deep Roads. I support Bhelen's claim to the throne. Harrowmont is too much of a traditionalist and wants to cut off Orzammar from the rest of the world. If he does that the infighting will continue."  
“What if we took the promissory note to the Shaperate first to see if it’s even legitimate?” Alistair suggested.  
"Which would you rather have, a charismatic nice-guy, or a king that does what's best even if it isn't the most popular? Or even morally sound for that matter,” Zevran added.  
Alistair replied, "What does it say about me that you agree with Arl Eamon's plans?"  
"That's a concern for another time," Warden Cousland dismissed. "My concern right after now is whether all bathtubs in Orzammar come in dwarf size or if they've got a few human sized tubs tucked away somewhere. Even an elf-sized tub would do I suppose. Do Golems bathe? Perhaps there’s a golem sized bath here somewhere.”  
"Does she take anything seriously?" She heard Wynne ask as she walked away.  
Warden Cousland walked at a leisurely pace from the Commons to the Diamond Quarter where Bhelen had made rooms ready for his guests. She basked in the heat of Orzammar and took in the sights. It was odd to think a beautiful city could exist underground like this. Upon entering Orzammar she had removed her cloak and now wore her inscribed leather armor.  
Behind her she could hear footsteps, the soft soles of well-worn boots. She was still trying to acclimate to the hot metal and stone smells of Orzammar, unable to pick up the scent of her shadow. They weren't trying to be invisible.  
Without looking behind her, she felt for the grip of her bow and turned. An angry dwarf jerked to a halt, and a couple of onlookers joined in. An ambush. Swords sang clear of scabbards, and arrows were nocked.  
The first few arrows were easy to dodge, her grace and flexibility allowing her to evade effortlessly. The same with the swords that arced her way. Trying to hit her on the battlefield was a task most failed at. She lurched forward, shoulder aimed at the midsection of an attacker and rode them to the ground, somersaulting the rest of the way over them to land in a crouch with arrows nocked.  
"If we must fight, let us do it quickly," she growled.  
She became a whirlwind of arrows, slashing and parrying viciously with a dagger when some crept too close. She cut two of the Dwarves straight across the belly, and another across the throat before someone finally struck her. It was a crossbow bolt skimming her thigh that slowed her long enough to staunch the flow of blood from it out, allowing one of the warriors to charge her with their shield.  
She had had enough. Only three opponents remained. She threw an acid flask at the archer, the impact against his breastplate splashed the noxious liquid into his face. The crossbow fell impotently to the ground as he clawed at the burnt flesh. An arrow sang clear of her bow and toppled him.  
Two more arrows and the slash of her blade finished off the group of attackers. She stood in the center of a half circle of bodies bleeding and panting. Orzammar’s guards came running.  
“Grey Warden, are you all right?” one of the guards asked.  
“These men thought themselves stronger than a lone Grey Warden. They were mistaken, and now you have a mess to clean up.”  
She noted that all guards had been absent during the fray and gave them knowing looks. Harrowmont supporters appeared to be corrupting even the city’s watch. This was an example of why she could not trust Harrowmont’s claim to the throne. Bystanders could have been harmed or killed while the guards turned a blind eye for thugs to try and murder her. Never mind that she and her companions had a much bigger role to play. Political unrest was apparently more important than the Blight to these people.  
She found her way to her rooms in the Diamond Quarter after tying a bandage around her bleeding leg. She would need healing herbs, but not before her bath.  
Once, Minerva Cousland had been a beautiful girl with flawless cinnamon skin. Her midnight colored hair had been thick and shining but always curled too wildly to be held by jeweled combs. The road had changed her. As she stripped away her armor, she exposed the scars on her chest from the Tower of Ishal, the myriad of burns and hatch marks down her arms and back that had healed to uneven pinks and beige from the night Howe had laid waste to her family. Her hair which had once flowed to her waist was now hardly past her shoulders and braided so as not to obstruct her view in battle.  
The bolt that had hit her leg had been largely stopped by the hardened leather armor and was more a surface wound than anything. Another scar to add to the story her body told.  
Orzammar was warm enough she could sit naked in the tub as it filled with steaming water. She added elfroot and wild flowers to ease her aching muscles. She drifted in and out of a shallow consciousness as the steaming water surrounded her. It was the first time in weeks she had been comfortable. Constantly being on the road in the Ferelden countryside meant freezing weather, cold bed rolls, and hard ground to sleep on. Here she felt almost normal again.  
After most of the heat had gone from the water, she dried herself off and dressed in a loose tunic and tights and slipped between the sheets. The beds in Orzammar were another wonder. They were plush mattresses on platform beds. The whole room gave the impression it was more of a stage than a bed with three steps up to what would be a waist high bed for a dwarf. And for being designed by and for dwarves, the beds were large and luxurious. Qunari feet would probably hang over the edge, but she was nowhere near that tall.  
What sleep she managed in the first few hours of the evening was troubled. The bed that should have soothed her into a restful slumber woke her in panics. Since leaving home, she had slept in tents on the ground or out under the Ferelden sky. Waking in the plush bed made her remember the night she had lost everything. She gasped awake reaching for weapons thinking the noises in Orzammar that crept into her dreams were the clink of swords and shouts of surprised servants. Usually her mabari was curled at her feet or at her side giving her instant comfort with his calm, but tonight he was probably slumbering on the tavern floor at Zevran’s feet where he had remained when she left.  
She had all but given up on sleep and sat against the headboard when the lock on the door tumbled. Her bow was already in her hand with an arrow nocked when the shadow appeared, ambient light glinting off metal and silhouetting the figure in the doorway.  
The clack clack clack of her mabari’s nails on the floor made her relax the bowstring.  
“Zevran, is that you?”  
“Ahhhh, you are awake,” he purred. “Your furry companion misses you, so I saw it only fit to see him back to your side.”  
The mabari padded over to the bed, nuzzled her hand, and settled down on the floor next to her. Just like old times. Zevran sat on the side of the bed near her feet, eyes heavy lidded and smelling of wine.  
“I thought you would be sleeping at this late hour. What has you restless?”  
“Dreams,” she responded absently. She was haunted by guilt over Iona's death. If she hadn’t been with her that night, she might have lived. Even as she thought it she knew it was nonsense though, everyone had been murdered except her brother.  
“And not the good kind I take it,” Zevran continued. “Like dreams of us in a warm lake on a summer’s day.”  
In spite of herself, she laughed. Zevran’s terrible passes at her had become familiar. The girl she had been would’ve joined him in his tent the moment he implied the possibility. The woman she was now made sure to consider the consequences. She would be a fool if she hadn’t considered the fact that in his place, she may use her body as a bargaining chip just to survive. He had trained to be charming, useful, and deceptive.  
“You should stay tonight,” she said. “It’s too dangerous to be out alone here. We’ve made enemies.”  
“We make enemies everywhere, it’s what we do.”  
“Some Harrowmont thugs attacked me in the commons earlier and the guards turn a blind eye. I would feel better if you would stay here tonight. I’m not likely to get anymore sleep so you can take the bed.”  
“Were you harmed?” His genuine concern gave her pause.  
She exposed the wound on her leg and explained it was superficial and the healing herbs meant it didn’t even hurt. Zevran clucked his tongue, brow furrowed in annoyance.  
“Hopefully you slit their throats and tossed them in the molten pits. Or even better, tossed them in alive and screaming.”  
She smiled. “They are dead, but I fear it will not be the last of them.”  
Her mabari padded over to the door of the room and curled up right in front of it. Anyone wishing to enter would have to deal with a deadly war hound. It also served to show Zevran that his exit was barred. The decision was made. It seemed Mabari really could understand everything you said.  
“I have nothing better to do this evening. You should try and get more sleep, the Deep Roads hardly seems the type of place to not be at your best.”  
The hound sighed and closed its dark eyes.  
Minerva swung her legs from the bed so she sat shoulder to shoulder with Zevran. Her dark damp hair hung like a curtain between them.  
“I’m haunted by my past, Zev. The last time I slept in a bed like this my whole world changed. I can scarcely sleep as it is, this...” she waved her hand toward the bed, “this just makes me wake with my heart pounding in my throat and every muscle in my body screaming at me to fight. I am rested enough.”  
His warm fingers brushed her hair behind her ear and exposed the shimmering trail a tear had tracked down her cheek.  
“You don’t have to talk about painful memories on my account. I promise you when the traitor is found, he will not escape.”  
He pulled her in against his side and breathed her fragrance. His body was warm against her, comforting beyond measure. For weeks she had shied away from anyone’s casual touch like an animal kicked too many times. To be able to relax and feel another comforting her in her grief was almost too much.  
“Thank you, Zevran. And just so you know, an elf like you will fit just fine in these dwarven tubs if you would like to take a bath.”  
“Tsk tsk, trying to take advantage of my inebriated state, you are a very bad girl, my dear warden.”  
“Oh Zev, we both know you haven’t had that much to drink. You found your way to my room just fine.”  
“Or perhaps I followed your hound and he found his way here just fine. A mystery for you to ponder while I soak in that tub you spoke of.”  
Zevran began unfastening the clasps on his gauntlets and shin guards as he sat there, then kicked his boots off.  
“Feel free to steal glances as I undress,” he continued to tease, “it is quite the show.”  
Minerva laughed again and answered, “I don’t have enough coin for the show, I’m afraid. I keep gambling with an Antivan assassin and losing.”  
“Ah well, then perhaps we should play for clothes instead of coins,” he responded.  
He vanished through the bathroom before removing the leather cuirass. She was almost tempted to look but instead she pulled out her armor and weapons to clean and oil the leather. From the next room she could hear the water splashing and a sigh of contentment. She smiled to herself. She wasn’t the only one that missed creature comforts.  
Reminding herself she would need to purchase more arrows before they left in the morning, she tucked her belongings away and tried to focus on a map. It was difficult to concentrate. Her eyelids felt heavy and she was physically exhausted.  
When Zevran had finished with his bath, his hair hung in wet waves around his face. A towel was tied around his waist over his smallclothes and he carried his armor.  
Minerva had spread the map out on the floor and lay on her belly examining the paths Oghren had provided her. What little information she had about the Deep Roads would have to be enough. Sighing, she rested her cheek against her palm.  
“When I was a little girl, my father would pore over maps of our lands. He had an impeccable sense of direction and could read maps like they spelled everything out to him. And here I struggle with understanding these old Thaigs and their locations. I keep having to remind myself that we are underground and our only landmarks are this rock or that statue that looks like a male dwarf, but could just as easily be a female dwarf.”  
Zevran laughed. He had begun running a stone over the edge of his blades to sharpen them. “Sometimes I forget you are a noble. It’s hard to see it when you are covered in blood and dirt.”  
Minerva rolled to her feet and stretched her sore muscles. “I never acted like a noble. My mother hated it because how was she ever going to marry me to some handsome young man? Eventually she gave up.”  
“Someone so beautiful how can you be so difficult to find a husband for?”  
She laughed. “Who says I don’t have someone waiting for me once the Blight is over? Who says I even want a husband?”  
Zevran raised an eyebrow. “So tell me about him...or her,” he challenged.  
“Perhaps another night. It is late and you still need to sleep. Morning will come too soon, I’m afraid.”  
Minerva paced the floor when she wasn’t trying to make sense of the Deep Roads as Zevran slept. He was a light sleeper, she noticed. When she stepped too heavily or too close to the bed, his breathing would change ever so slightly. Anyone else may have believed him to be asleep, but not her. She used the same tricks he did even on the battlefield, feigning death so an enemy would lose interest only to be pinned by one of her arrows or his blades.  
Eventually, she stopped pacing and climbed into the bed next to him. His eyes opened briefly and met hers before he smiled and closed them again. Under no delusions she would actually sleep, she was content to rest her body even as her mind continued to race. To her surprise, though, she did drift off to sleep. In her fear as the nightmares raged, she made keening noises deep in her throat that woke Zevran and made his heart ache for her. If he reached out to stroke her cheek or whisper comforting nothings, she calmed for a moment. When her terror had her heart pounding against his palm, he gently woke her and rubbed the back of her neck until she calmed again.  
Minerva woke before him, of course. In the night, he had pulled her so that her shoulder was against his chest as she slept on her back and he on his side. His hand was limp against her belly but had previously been curved around her hip. She felt guilty for robbing him of a sound night’s sleep with her thrashing and crying. She watched his sleeping face for a moment, then traced the two curving black tattoos near his eye and down his cheek.  
He hummed and smiled, eyes still closed, and stroked his hand down her belly. Her breath hitched as he skimmed very delicately against the apex of her thighs. Yearning began even as she tried to tell herself otherwise. As if realizing where he was and whom was next to him, his eyes opened and he apologized.  
“Zev, I...”  
“Yes, this mysterious someone waiting for you,” he teased while grinning.  
“No,” she shot back, “I was going to tell you I didn’t want you to stop.”  
His hand returned to her belly. “Oh? Don’t want me to stop what?” He was nearly purring as his hand found the top of her pants and slid between her and the material. Her eyes never left his face as he reached lower until he skimmed just around where she wanted him to touch.  
Zevran teased her, never dipping his fingers between her swollen lips, just applying pressure as he kissed her deeply and passionately. Her hips began the primal sway conveying her enthusiasm. Perhaps he would have finally touched her where she wanted had the mabari by the door not lifted its head to bark at approaching footsteps and then a knock.  
“Braska,” Zevran swore as he broke from the kiss.  
“The others are probably waiting for us anyway,” Minerva sighed.  
The knock was more insistent the second time so Zevran withdrew and rolled to his feet. She couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t the only one eager for more.  
“Minerva,” Alistair called through the door, “rise and shine! We shouldn’t keep the dark spawn waiting!”  
Zevran hurriedly donned his boots and armor to answer the door while Warden Cousland pulled her own armor on across the room. She was buckling her quiver across her chest when the door opened.  
“Zevran? What are you...?”  
“Safety in numbers,” Zev responded with a smirk.  
“Alistair, thank you for coming to wake me. Is Wynne on her way?”  
His eyes roved the room before settling on her face as he nodded and cleared his throat. She neither confirmed nor denied what his assumption must have been, it wasn’t worth the time. Minerva Cousland was no fool, she had seen the way the ex Templar recruit had looked at her. She felt sorry for obviously letting him down somehow, but she felt no responsibility to protect his feelings. At least that's what she told herself. When she and Alistair had met, it had been right after her family had died. She had thought of little else besides revenge.  
“Perhaps we should meet Wynne halfway. If she is alone, she may be attacked as you were,” Zevran offered.  
“Good point,” she agreed.  
“Wait, you were attacked? When? Are you alright?”  
She pulled her bow across her body and tucked her knives into their sheathes before answering. “Last night when I left the tavern, some fanatics. They were upset with our meddling in their political affairs.”  
The plan conceived the night before had been to meet in Minerva’s quarters to quietly discuss their plans without prying ears and eyes. It seemed the plan had changed. The group set out quickly, Minerva and Zevran followed by Alistair, the mabari loping easily by his side.  
Minerva was only half paying attention to her surroundings, unable to shake the feeling of the mornings events and not entirely wanting to. Her feelings for Zevran were complicated at best. Alistair thought her a fool for sparing his life, and Wynne was cautiously optimistic. Something in her knew on a deeper level that he was no longer a threat to her. Or at least hoped he wasn't.  
The group arrived without incident to find Wynne stopped at a charms vendor. The mage seemed surprised to see her companions, but pleased nevertheless. Before Zevran or Alistair could give explanation, Minerva said, “It seems we had the same idea.” Her easy smile did not entirely fool the healer.  
To Alistair, Minerva said, “You may want to replenish your poultices. It seems as though Darkspawn just love teaming up on you.”  
“Minerva,” Wynne said, “I noticed a vendor near the proving grounds with a large assortment of enchanted arrows. Perhaps they would aid us on our journey.”  
Without another word, she went in the direction Wynne indicated. Her quiver was only half full, and her purse overflowing. She spent an exorbitant amount of money on arrows she could set aflame as well as some enchanted arrows that crackled with electricity. The vendor talked her into purchasing another quiver at a discount, this one to be worn parallel to her thigh. She tested the fit and feel, the time it took her to draw and knock an arrow, and tipped the merchant for the advice.  
“My lady,” the merchant called as she turned to rejoin her companions. She turned back, eyes meeting his. “The Deep Roads have claimed many, but that is not your greatest danger. Watch your back in Orzammar. Avoid the Diamond Quarter until Harrowmont or Behlen are crowned.”  
She nodded her head in acknowledgment and tossed a few more coins to him. “Let me know if you hear anymore rumors in the city.”  
“Yes, my lady.”  
Resupplied and rested, the group set out to put a king on Orzammar’s throne.


End file.
